


The Sociopath's Shadow

by Nonja24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction, Multi, Not Your Typical Romance, Original Character - Freeform, Original Character(s), Sherlock Being Sherlock, The Game Is Afoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-17 01:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonja24/pseuds/Nonja24
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a shadow, one that has been a part of him for as long as he can remember and she's v e r y distracting. His shadow is unlike anything he has ever seen before, a living creature with an ever-changing face that protects and remains by his side with an unquestioned loyalty, yet so distorted in shape, he can never tell who she'll be when he wakes up.Sherlock finds her infuriating, an intriguing puzzle he is desperate to solve, so when a chance encounter with retired Army medic, John Watson, begins to peel back the layers of his shadows' life, Sherlock finds himself thrown into the darker criminal depths of London's world, and straight into the hands of the worlds first Consulting Criminal, a man who has taken a keen interest in both his shadow and himself.To uncover the truths his shadow has been hiding, Sherlock must face new dangers in order to protect all that he knows, but in doing so, he may just find out some truths about her that he's not quite ready to face yet, for the shadow world is a dangerous place to be for a man who thought he knew everything.





	1. The Forgotten Man

_original posting date:_ 11.12.2016

**chapter one |** _the forgotten man_

   John Watson was a soldier.

  He was a  _good_ soldier and that was what he had been his entire life, that's what separated him from humanity. John knew how to be a good soldier and that gave him the ability to survive in difficult situations, surrounded by enemies and never knowing when one breath would be his last. 

  The tough terrain of the foreign world had become a home for him, but that all ended one terrible day and instead of drawing one last breath, his life was ended in a far worse way. He came home to a country that forgot he existed for their protection. People would look at him as if he were a ghost from war, a crippled man now that could no longer serve his country, therefore making him useless to them. 

  John Watson was a _m e m o r y._

  He knew the nightmares he carried with him now were the reason he missed the war in the first place - at least there, he was understood. It was hard to accept normalcy when nobody appeared to even care what a frightening deed he had done for his country or noted his existence upon return home from a devastating loss of not only his career but who he truly was as well. 

  That, however, did not make every day unbearable. Sometimes he would wake and have a good day and others, not so much, yet he would be in that tiny room once more when he came to the consciousness of the world, carrying the faint exhaustion of his nightmares once more. Horrible dreams of the battlefield, the men he lost, the wounds he had patched up. Memories of what tore through flesh and bone, stealing lives and crippling men and women who served to keep this war off their beloved shores. 

  John had never been scared of much out in that battlefield. He watched friends die, he had carried the wounded across metres of blood-soaked grounds to safety as they crossed under the ruins of heavy fire. He had witnessed first hand children holding guns, forced to fire upon his company for the protection of their own families.

  Living back in a normal world, with normal people - he felt alienated. 

  There in his dreams, he carried the wounded and he pulled the trigger. He watched shadows dance around him as they fell upon the murky battle field. Cries were like the strangled chorus of wolves into the misty night and that was when it happened. It was the pain at first that burned through his body and took him down to his knees, before the shock settled in and the numbness washed away any chance of an adrenaline rush. 

 John knew what occurred, even more strangely, he knew that the blinding rush of emotions burning through his body was in no way going to protect him from the hole that tore through his flesh and left something more than just a bloody wound in it's place. The pain was just unbearable. The memory of it was like it happened just seconds ago, constantly, reminding him it was there, it had ended his career -

 It had ended him. 

 John could not escape the mistake that had befallen him and that's what made life worse, because he wanted to work. He wanted to be a part of this society again and to fit into it somehow, but life plucked him out of his home and put him in a world that had once been familiar territory, that he knew like the back of his hand and yet every street was a stranger to him. 

 He couldn't be John Watson without the war and that's the thought that crossed his mind as he went down that day on the battlefield. As the rush of adrenaline only numbed the pain for a few seconds before the doctor realised he was down. He was  _out._ He was done for. In a feverish sweat, he lay there, recalling all his old injuries, all the people he saved the lives off -

_"Watson!"_

  Startled, the wounded soldier flung his covers from his body as he sat up. He felt damp, covering a cold sweat that ran down his back and once more sodden his sheets with his fear, with that memory. The walls around him seemed unfamiliar that he had to double-take a look upon them just to make sure he was in the dark little place society had tossed him into, to make sure that he wasn't  _there._

 The deafening ring in his ears was the only other comfort he had from the silence of the early morning before he glanced at the clock on the wall.  _Tick-tock. Tick-tock._ It was too humanly possible to be up from the depths of death itself, but he was the early bird and now he knew it was almost impossible to go back to sleep. The nightmare would just come back and he would face a torment that no other person would ever understand. 

 John Watson had seen many bad things during his time of war. A lot of him was left behind in that foreign country; now these four walls that should be home were more like a prison for him rather than a place that provided security and warmth. He was in no way ever going to get over being alone, being unloved by such a uncaring society he had almost sacrificed his very life for. 

 And then he glanced around and he remembered why it felt so un-homey. He owned very little, next to nothing actually. It done him little good, of course. He was here to forget about what he had been through in the war and yet not a single piece of humanity decorated his walls or the floor. He had the necessity items of a man not planning on staying for long in a dull world.

 Just a weapon of his Queen's country, spent and abandoned. John realised he was breathing rather heavily in that moment, head bowed as he attempted to wash away the fear of being sick over such a boring floor. Deep breath. In and out. In ... and ... out until eventually the feeling passed away and he could breathe once more, reminding himself that here, he was safe. 

 Here, he was alive. 

 Maybe that scared him more as he flattened himself back down onto his dull sheets and stared up at the plain ceiling over head. The thought of being so unaccepted by society that he was just eventually forgotten about, held little interest for the soldier, but dying alone? It was a thought that terrified him. A thought that many would not even consider since everybody died alone, but when you were a soldier, when you were with  _those_ people - you survived with them.

 Even that silly little thought suddenly had the soldier cuddling his head with his arms, turning him into a sobbing mess. He curled onto his side, pained by what he had been, by what he could have been, by the memories that were a part of him haunting him every night until it drove the broken man mad with guilt and fear. He should've died out there on the battlefield, he should have been with his brothers and sisters.

 But he was here - and he was alone. 

 John Watson composed himself a few seconds later and dropped his arms to his sides, even as the tears remained stained to his cheeks and forearms, the soldier had composed himself rather quickly. Frustration, he had been told, was just another part of surviving outside the war and back in the real world, where it was oblivious to the true transformation one man would go through until they went through it themselves. 

 Here he was, laying there on the bed of John Watson. He - a man that had no real identity now or life - staring at the ceiling of his small, tidy apartment, wondering what the next few hours of the small, bothersome day would hold for him. He - the stranger who carried a name that sounded so unfamiliar to him ... he had yet to earn the name again. John Watson was an Army medic, who served and fought for Queen and Country. 

 He was the man who was afraid to die, who had been afraid to live in the horrible agony of what the war done to him. He would have followed his brothers and sisters into the arms of death itself, but the world had not wanted him to go yet. A man now, back in the real world of monsters and fear, carrying the burden of just being afraid to step out of his front door and face the people that only saw him as a cripple. 

 John Watson died in that war - and he came home in his place.

[ **a study in pink**  ]

 The next morning was almost like routine for him. John spent a while in the bathroom, easing off the memory of the night before of a rather sleepless night. He would keep his head below the water just until he could no longer breathe, thinking about how his life would be explained away by the people who found him - if they found him, before he rose and washed. 

 The sheets would be changed once more, taken down to the shared washrooms in the building. There would always be the overpowering smell of detergent and the Leonor, but he would ignore it. Compared to what the rest of London could smell like in the morning, it was a rather refreshing scent. He would leave his sheets to do their cycle, knowing the kind elderly woman he shared the floor with gathered them for him later, fold and leave them outside his door. 

 And then he would make himself coffee. It was never the best coffee, something foul from the corner store just up the street that opened up till late because he never really had a knack for buying things that tasted good. It was just there when he needed it, and it was served in a mug he rarely liked to use, but it was a nice coffee. It woke him up from the terrible thoughts and it serviced him throughout the day. 

 With his walking stick clutched tightly in one, war-torn hand, John Watson limped calmly towards a desk just opposite his bed. The only desk in the room, well aware of the arising noise outside his open window. This country was cold, brisk - a temperature that serving beyond its borders one came to appreciate, if only for a few days after returning. It was the early morning he liked to listen too. 

 Shops opening early. Owners would be putting out their signs and cafe assistants would be putting their breakfast specialities on a chalkboard to encourage people in. The people being the early birds that would be up even before John Watson to ready themselves for work, people with their huge, most likely empty - briefcases plunging unhappily down to the underground stations to get to work on time, busying the sidewalks in their attempts to outsmart every other person with the same idea. 

 Train stations would be overworked already with men and women then hailing the city taxi's in order to miss the morning traffic. A usual, typical morning. London, where everybody had somewhere to go and something to do, whether it was work, try to find work, go to school or break the rules ... everybody apart from John Watson had somewhere to be that morning. 

 Sighing, the coffee cup reached the table before the soldier did and there it would most likely stay for the rest of the day, untouched, forgotten. As he perched himself on the chair and pushed his legs underneath the table, John looked down to the injury he had sustained in war. Often, his body would go through bouts of pain and numbness that would leave it hard to walk.

 Wriggling the numb limb beneath the desk until he could feel his toes crawl inside his slippers, the soldier sighed and rubbed his thigh gently. As that would help shoo the unease away for the moment. Gritting his teeth, a thought plaguing his mind that it could be far worse than what it already was, he reached to the drawer just beside him and plucked it open. 

 There was a laptop inside, awaiting his audience once more. It was rough around the edges from endless, frustrated attempts to put it back in one handed or unease to it freezing all the time. Despite that, it was rarely used. John Watson didn't work well with technology, at least these last few months it had been something of a difficulty for him, but he was getting the hang of it.

 It was not even the technology that angered or confused him so - it was the order he was given, the reason why every morning, he would sit at his table and stare at the drawer, deciding whether or not to pluck it from it's confines and do what he had been instructed with a light heart. What he had to use it for was something he couldn't do as easily as he could breathe or drink foul coffee. 

 Jaw taunt, John reached in and pulled the laptop free of it's confines, aware of the surprise that lay beneath the wretched device. He kept it there for good measures and until recently, it had been under his pillow for protection until an unfortunately accident with a bad memory and the fear of an intruder coming to kill him left a nice hole in the wall and the reminder that he was not a soldier anymore. 

 The difficulty of that abandonment of the only safety he had known those last few years on the job was hard. The knowledge that he was no longer a soldier and now stuck as a civilian left him bruised. He was haunted and he was alone and pain followed his every movement until he was even afraid to breathe. 

 The piece of metal that rested idly in the drawer was his alternative ending; how easily it would be done to put the metal to his skull and pull the trigger, paint the dull walls with colour for one last pitiful act in this world. The gun held his attention only a few moments, his military history just laying there, unused and feared, like it should be. It was a curious temptation, but today, he closed the fear away and focused on the laptop. 

  Sitting the laptop on the desk, John looked at it blankly for only a few seconds before pushing up the lid and watched in small amusement as it flashed into life. There was his order, sitting on the loading screen already for his fingers to type up the misery of his life, with only one loyal reader. The woman he was destined to see later on in the day come the misery of his injury. 

 A blog.

 That's what his life had come down too. This. Trusting a website with his hopes and dreams and nightmares so that people on the other side of the screen could read and judge him from afar. Who would want to know what a distant, lonely soldier was going through or had to eat in the morning; that a wounded leg was the cause of his terrible nightmares or that he was just a forgotten man of war, like many who survived and came home.

 Here, he was supposed to write everything, but John couldn't bare to even type a letter onto the screen without feeling judged and stupid. It was a good idea for those who felt the need to expel their anger and hatred out onto the world, but not him. He was a soldier, a man who had fought in the wars and seen people die. There were already plenty of horrors, why add his nightmares into the mix? 

 At the top of the page sat those taunting words:  _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson._

 A medical man. A man. A soldier who really wasn't him anymore. His life led up to this; to this hell-hole. This man who had killed people, saved lives, fought for his country and woke up now with terrible pains in his back and leg and cried himself to sleep every other night, who was given a second chance in the place that many others like him had not been. He was not about to wash it all away onto a blog that nobody would read. 

 The cursor blinked at him, unused once more on the empty page. Empty for two weeks and counting. He was beginning to find it difficult to even look at it without wanting to slam the laptop down and just toss it back into the drawer.  There was just a part of him that he didn't want the world to know about; once that piece of him was out there, it was out there and he could never protect himself from it. 

 John sighed; the secrets he knew, the things he kept from these people - he done it because if they knew even a grain of what he had been through in that world, they would judge him and they would question him on why such private matters came to light. So in turn, there was nothing good to talk about. The world didn't want to know he lived the same routine every day. 

 Get up. Have coffee. Do  _day-stuff_ and go to bed. 

 John frowned. Maybe today would be different however, he was feeling different, feeling good on the matter. His hands hovered over the keyboard and he stared at the blinking cursor with all intent to start writing. Fingers jiggled, he gave himself a second to adjust and make himself comfortable, but nothing came, because nothing interesting ever happened to John Watson. 

 At least - nothing  _yet._

 


	2. October 12, 2009

_original posting date:_ 29.12.2016

 **chapter two |** _October 12, 2009_

 Sir Jeffrey Patterson was an honest man by nature- usually. It was just how he was raised, but there came a time in ones life when their duty to business was questioned by natural human nature. There was a part of his social life that not even the closest knew about for the very reason that it would put his reputation on the line if word ever got out. 

 He was, as they put it these days, a well-off man who could retire three times over and still have a good life afterwards. He worked hard all his life to get to where he was; a wife, darling children that had all but grown up and shipped themselves off to university. He deserved a little joy in his life, something that he earned for himself. If that was what you could call that. 

 Sir Jeffrey had everything a man his age could ask for and even more, enjoying life to the fullest when he could, when work was not consuming him. After all, the purpose of living was to have some days to ones self, which meant working to earn that reward. Something he had been taught as a child by a very self-respected father. Every turn down, every high peek that came - he enjoyed it all. 

 That afternoon was busy, loud and he was preparing himself for the last few minutes of his shift before heading home. With his coat tucked under his arm, despite the chill of the Underground, he learned that his train had been cancelled due to a problem with the tracks; nothing major, but a delay would occur for at least three hours - all passenger were informed and encouraged to walk to a sister station for an extra twenty minute journey. 

 Something he didn't have the patience for. 

 The train was just a faster way of getting to where he needed to be. Home. It could wait for a little while longer, the excuses already piling on his mind of how to tell his wife. She would understand; as long as she had some money in her pocket in the morning, she wouldn't dare ask questions and that was something Sir Jeffrey had become well aware off. The woman had changed since their marriage, since the disappearance of their college-needy children and that gave him the ability to do as he wanted. 

  _When_ he wanted.

 It was then that he fled the Underground and into the safety of the street, lurking on the corner as he assessed the best way to go from there. He didn't drive - he paid people to do that for him and in turn, that left him  _here._  Stuck, but not alone. He heard his mobile singing from his pocket and plucked it quickly up to his ear, knowing it was most likely his awaiting company wondering where he was and more importantly when he would arrived. 

 After a brief conversation with the angelical voice on the other end of the life, his smile faded like melted snow. "What do you mean there's no ruddy car?"

 The young secretary across the city stood in their office with an arm wrapped around her waist, aware that he held a little respect for her inability to provide him with transportation at this troubling time. Considering that she had little control over rush hour or - for that matter - the problem with the train tracks, he would have to deal with her suggestion. No car would get to him in time before he was due home. 

 Dark blonde locks pulled back into a loose ponytail, the woman tugged at her smart-office wear with a nervousness. Although he often spoke to her with a gentleness when they were thrust together, today she could sense his agitation. Another argument with the wife, no doubt, something that would reflect horribly on his work; as of right then, she was sure he'd rather hear her voice than that of his wife's.

 They owned two rental spaces in London, one of which she had to work at every Friday given the condition of the workforce lately and their handling of the paperwork. She kept things in check and the boss handled her later. Walking quietly to the corner of  _his_ office to peer out of the window at the last few stragglers packing up their things to leave for the night, Helen found herself frowning. 

 These last few days, she felt as if all eyes were on her.

 Resting lightly against the desk pressed up against the window, Helen slipped the blinds closed one more and relaxed. He was an easily flustered man who relied heavily on those he paid, it just wasn't his fault that their driver had decided to book a holiday this close to the most busiest time of the year for the company and their boss. At the end of the day, all problems were their problems and she would fix him later.

 "He went to Waterloo," Helen reminded him gently. "I'm sorry, but you did give him the time off for a reason." She knew her next suggestion would only irritate him, yet since she could not drive, it was his only other option. "Grab a cab."

 "I never get in cabs," he replied proudly. 

 It was then that Helen smiled - and she smiled because Sir Jeffrey could be so predictable sometimes for his own good. The man, regardless of state and reputation, would find himself above everybody else at points due to an unfortunate experience many years ago in the Taxi service London provided - a story that he had shared with her only once before and under the influence of a New Years drink.

 It was natural. Her boss relied on late trains and his own personal driver to ferry him around like he was the King of the City. Not that it mattered really, they only had a few hours together tonight before he was due home and plenty of things that needed discussing. Things that could not wait any longer if he continued to be a child about getting back too her.

 Slowly, Helen looked through the blinds when she heard the door close for the last time and then smiled, "I love you."

 And then he perked up, like those words were an instant drug to him. 

 "When?" he asked, stomach clenching. 

 "Get a cab!" she instructed and with that, the phone was placed on the counter.

 Unaware that that would be the last thing he ever heard from someone he loved. 

[  **a study in pink** ]

 Sitting on the floor by a window of an empty office building, Sir Jeffrey Patterson looked out into the world that would no longer offer him help as words swam around his mind.  _Adultery. Disgusting. Disloyalty._ He never meant any harm to the woman he had married, the child he raised, but he was just human. 

 It was a mistake.

 In a way, Sir Jeffrey never thought it would destroy his family. If the news got out that he had been dishonest in his marriage, what else would they discover - what would they think of the man who had an affair with a woman that wanted more than just his money. He never thought that his children would face discrimination for his actions. He never  _thought_ that his wife actually loved him.

 He was the adulterer and yet at night, he went home - the truth lingered in the scent of disloyalty to a woman who had given her life to him - and blamed her for his actions. She was the cheater, she was the one who - no. No, that wasn't the truth. He had become paranoid and desperate. The side thing was just a release. That was right, yet no matter how he begged the truth, it didn't matter. 

 No one would ever find out if he just done as he was asked.  

 Sir Jeffrey lingered, if not for a second to attempt the kindness from the other, but it would not come. His phone was tossed like trash out onto the street after ringing for the hundredth time - he had been missing an hour and it didn't take an hour, even in rush hour, to get back to her. It was not just calls from Helen. The wife too when he didn't show up at home. Calls he would never answer. 

 In his hand, a small bottle shook, a couple of capsules containing God knew what in them shaking lightly against the glass. He had been instructed to take them for the safety of his children - not only his children, but his wife too and his mistress. He had been challenged first, challenged with their safety and if he did not care about the women in his life, then his sons would matter most. His daughter. 

 He only needed to take one to keep them safe - and none of this would get out. 

 To end it all, Sir Jeffrey just had to take one. Promised that it would end as quickly as his betrayal had started because after all, the more that death promised him, the easier it became to make his decision. He could ruin himself and his wife and even his mistress, but his children - he would die for them. He would do  _anything_ to keep them safe, even if the world had to believe one last lie.

 One last look across London City, where he was born and raised, Sir Jeffrey finally looked away and down to his hand where one of the small white pills were poured out onto his hands and stared at. Tears threatened to fall. Desperation of a deflated man most in need of some help that would never come. He would die knowing that his family were safe, but not with the modesty he wanted to go out with. 

 To stop the lies, Sir Jeffrey slipped one of the pills between his lips. 

 Swallowing, the promise lingered on his mind;  _they will be safe._

 They will be alive.

 [  **a study in pink** ]

 A manhunt had been presented for the police force of London, the determination to find a very important and missing man alive all but nipped them in the butts when two days later, Sir Jeffrey Patterson's corpse was found by a local retailer desperately trying to sell the empty office space to a new founding company. 

 It was a disappointment Scotland Yard had yet to come to terms with, a day of resources thrust into finding a dead man. Apparent suicide from the on-scene findings, but it seemed a little out of place. The man had gone to die like a respectful cat - alone. Out of the way. It struck all the cords of a suicide, yet still bore the broken noose overhead of a murder. However, with no signs of foul play ... they only had one obligation. 

 At the Police-Press conference, very few people showed up to support the wife of another dead businessman and suicidal husband. He was gone now, like many others before him and others were already stepping up to take over the business. The eldest son had taken foot in his fathers place and Sir Jeffrey Patterson was to be buried in two days time, where even fewer people would show up to his funeral. 

 Tearfully, Margaret Patterson sat at the table before the many camera's, the stains of the last two days of sadness still present in her close up. She stared at the statement in disbelief, still attempting to understand why her loving and cherished husband had done this to himself. It was not like they weren't happy. As far as she was aware, they had been perfect - brilliant together and ... everything just didn't make sense.

 Flanked by a police officer to her left and another man to her right, a old friend of the family who was now set to guide her young son into a career of harshness and desperate need for respect, she read over the words once more, palming the fresh tears away from her cheeks as the vultures flocked her noisily. Her husband was not in the business of being nice to people and that, she feared, was the only reason why these things surrounded her. 

 "My husband was a happy man," she sobbed weakly, fingers clenching the paper as the looks she was given made her grimace. "He had three children he was incredibly proud off and he lived life to the full. He loved his work and -" she pushed back her permed hair, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, "- that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and  _shock_ to all that knew him."

 Off to one side, Helen stood there with her arms wrapped around her waist, unable to stand beside the wife proudly. She was able to stand there, however and face the fact that from here on now, secrets would get out. Secrets that she was sure Margaret already knew about and chose to overlook, given the condition of living with a man like Sir Jeffrey Patterson. She was his devoted and loving wife and Helen was nothing more than a woman he took pity on. 

 At least that's how the proud bitch saw it. 

 Helen couldn't look Margaret in the eyes, forcing her to hold her emotions in as best as she could to avoid blame for this. It hurt. So bad as she pressed a hand to her stomach and pulled away from the onslaught of voices demanding to know why the man would have done this in the first place. She realised in that moment, the night he was due to come around, she was going to tell him. 

 Slipping from the room, almost abandoning her post, Helen rested against the wall just outside and let out a stuttered breath, as if she couldn't breathe. She knew not how to do this alone and now, knowing that possibly his death was because of her made her feel physically sick. She carried herself proudly, but today she felt deflated and defeated. Margaret had finally won, but the victory wouldn't last for long - Eventually the Patterson's would have another heir to the family millions.

 It was currently growing inside of Helen.

 Little did they know, Sir Jeffrey Patterson was only the beginning. 

 


	3. November 26, 2009

_original posting date:_ 14.01.2017

**chapter three |** _November 26, 2009_

It was supposed to be one of those glorious nights that indicated fun, laughter and perhaps a little drunken foolishness they would all regret in the morning. For most of the day, it appeared to be of glorious standards, that the night would be just a little bit nippy and that gave most of them hope for a joyful evening which most hoped would result in something a little better than a notorious hangover in the morning.

For them, however, the problems started early. Their ride had suddenly become sick and in no means of any way were they going to miss this party, so ultimately, both had decided to brace the impending weather and  _walk._ Now, the walking part wasn't so bad, they were both athletes in school and a mere twenty minute walk from one house to another was not a bother - at least until the rain started to fall.

Luckily, Gary always was paranoid about being caught with his pants down, so he carried an umbrella with him that evening just in case. The night opened heavily with the rain and pelted them with all it had. It was no secret that Gary was ultimately the smart one of the pair and the lighter-hearted one too; not to say his mate was a complete moron but Jimmy had his problems and that came with a stubbornness.

They had come from Jimmy's house, where the disarray was painted all over the boy's face; another fight between his parents had seen his father kicked out of the house again and a rather tired and fragile mother terrified on this night of losing her son to a party. It was sad that Jimmy was the only thing that stood between his mother and his father's drunken rage most nights, but that was something that the pair of them never spoke about when they were out together - this was time for Jimmy to forget he even had problems at home.

The house itself was only down the road, a mile back at most. Jimmy's mother, Dorothy, was supposed to be their lift to the party until this afternoon's incident. Gary knew he would learn about it later because his mate confided even his darkest secrets into him, like he was a little treasure box that could lock everything he done up and throw away the key.

Jimmy's attitude however, was far more defensive than he ever had seen it this year. Most recent, the arguing between his parents had become so bad that Jimmy felt at fault for it all, as if he was the problem, which of course wasn't the case. His father was just an old school man who believed in certain things, things that most of the world had come to accept as normalcy now.

"You know, we could call my dad," Gary offered when the rains started to get heavier.

Jimmy, pale skinned and with his coat turned up against the wind and rain, shook his head, spitting out a mouthful of rainwater. "Nah, we ain't got that far to go."

"We'll get colds before we get there," replied Gary, but nonetheless, continued walking, his umbrella offering him protection as best as it could.

"We can turn back if it bothers you that much," snorted Jimmy.

Gary glanced back at his mate with a scowl, "I don't think so. You've been badgering me on about this party for weeks."

"Then shut up and move your ass," grinned the other.

It was then that the rumble of an engine down the street caught their attention. Of course, this area, it was usually quiet for noise this time of night and knowing it wasn't exactly the safest place to be wondering around after dark either, they were cautious. Both turned to investigate the noise itself and relief washed over as a London cab slowly made it's way around the corner, looking for some potential customers in the horrid downpour.

Its beautiful yellow light glowing like the ultimate solution for their problems. Jimmy threw his friend a cheeky smile, before raising a arm to flag down the driver. Step after step into the road until he was certain the man driving the car could see him - only to growl in disappointment when the car rumbled on ahead as if it hadn't seen them, or more importantly, didn't want to ferry two young lads from this area to where they wanted to go.

"Taxi!" Jimmy roared after the driver, pointlessly.

"C'mon, Jimmy," called Gary, sighing, "He didn't hear you."

Jumping back onto the sidewalk, Jimmy looked at him, "What a wanker." Looking over his shoulder, towards home, he sighed, "I should go back for an umbrella."

"Just share mine," said Gary, offering out the umbrella.

There was a deathly silence between the pair upon the offer, something which Gary immediately frowned upon the moment Jimmy began walking past him, once again stubborn to the nature of friendship. Immediate blame fell on his friend's father, mostly out of silenced agony for the way Jimmy was suddenly acting over a innocent offer to keep them both from getting any wetter than they already were.

Lingering back a moment, Jimmy was halfway up the pavement when he noticed he was walking alone, "Don't take any offence, mate. Come on."

"It ain't gay sharing, you know," said Gary, irritably catching up to his friend.

Gary knew Jimmy's secret, and it was something he was very hesitant and withdrawn about, especially when it came to openly admitting that he felt disgusted with who he was because he had a father who could not accept his community. So, Jimmy remained crammed tightly into his own little closet in fear that if his father found out, it would be more than abusive language thrown at him and his mother; he felt vile, and angry, like he wasn't wired correctly.

That made Gary angry to every point imaginable. He had known Jimmy since he was a toddler, they practically grew up like brothers and one too many occasions, he had come to his friends rescue when confronted about his sexuality, which even at one point, forced him to get a girlfriend just to hide behind the perfect image his father sought him to be. It disgusted Gary to a point, knowing all he could do was be there when Jimmy felt conflicted and lonely.

The problem was the community, who were so behind on modern day acceptance that Jimmy was literally walking on eggshells every day. If someone were to see him even sharing an umbrella with his known best friend, it would cause problems and for Jimmy, that was something he'd avoid like the plague, knowing what his father would do if he even began to remotely suspect his own son was not straight and hateful like him.

As the rain pelted them the further they walked, Jimmy continued to look over his shoulder, already shivering as the cold water soaked his clothes and ran down his back. Every fibre of his being was freezing, making it near on impossible to take another step without thinking about how quick he would be jogging back home to fetch an umbrella and meeting his friend at the party.

"I'll be two minutes, mate," he announced to his silent friend.

Gary glanced at Jimmy finally, frowning. "You what?"

"Just going back home, get my mum's umbrella," said Jimmy, who had already turned now to the streaming rain. "I won't be two minutes."

"You can share  _mine,"_ Gary retorted.

It was too late, Jimmy was already heading off into the rain, heading for home. "I'll be two minutes!"

"Dammit," muttered the other, feet now cemented to the ground.

[  **a study in pink** ]

Now he knew that his friend was no good at time keeping; Jimmy would be late for his own funeral at any rate these days, but when ten minutes crept on by and there was no sign of his mate, Gary started to worry that something had happened back at his house. There was no chance he had detoured on the likeliness of finding a quicker way home - if that had been the case, they'd both be walking to the party by now, so something was wrong.

The rain had now lightened up too, enough for Gary to pull down his umbrella as the wet streets of London were now drizzled with a dusting of light rain, allowing him to walk briskly, but carefully back the way he had come when the fifteen minute mark rang struck and there was still no sign of his friend.

Thoughts consumed him along the way back to Jimmy's house, concerns that maybe something had happened to him. Gary made sure that he checked every alley from the tip of it's entrance upon return to his friends house, but when every alleyway turned up empty and there was no sign of Jimmy lingering or playing a game with him, his concern started to grow into something of fear.

The house Jimmy lived in was a small little thing on the corner of the road, snug enough to fit a two-time working mother and her children inside. She had just come of duty that night with her medical shift, which was why her son sought the opportunity to abandon the household so quickly too. Another fight with his father saw to her son wanted to get out of the property as fast as possible so he could escape what she couldn't, at least long enough to come back with the strength to protect her if he had too.

For that, her little boy was a brave soldier and he deserved this time alone. Linette, after all, had married a monster that sought to make her little boys life a hellish nightmare - of course she knew the truth about him, but to her, that didn't make Gary any less of a man. She defended her boy's honour with what little energy she had left and kept him safe from the man that was every part of him also.

Pushing back long, brunette curls from a hectic evening at work, Linette tucked her daughter into bed for the night. The three year old was too young to understand why her daddy got angry all the time or why her brother never wanted to play with her, but mummy loved her as best as she could. Gavin had been kicked out of the house again, purely because she didn't have time to mop up after his messes and upon discovering his weapon in the house - and her three year old daughter playing with it like it was some kind of toy, she'd given him an ultimatum - get out or she would hand him into the police.

Somehow, Linette had caught him on a good day. Gavin was not a bad man, he just had a lot of anger in him, brought up by a couple of religious parents who shamed him more than once in his child-years and made him what he was today, but he cared about his daughter and after learning that he could have lost her had her tiny fingers pulled the trigger, he left willingly. She just wished she could restart this entire era with her children, teach them that it would be okay to be different - she would love them, regardless of their father's feelings.

Just about to head down the hallway towards her bedroom for the night, Linette was stopped by the frantic buzzing of the doorbell, which Gavin had irritably switched back on recently because he hated how many times  _she_ had missed answering the door to his mates when they had to knock. The buzzing was shrill and urgent, forcing her to grab her dressing gown of the banister and head down the stairs to answer the door.

A glance at her watch before she pulled at the lock made her wonder if her boy was back early from his party - which seemed odd because he promised he would be crashing at Gary's for the night due to his little sister. Jimmy was an odd boy, but he was respectful - the only part of him that Gavin had managed to wire into the boy from a young age.

When she opened the door and Gary stood there, looking a little drowned and confused, Linette frowned at him, "What's wrong?"

"Where's Jimmy?" he asked, looking over her shoulder. "Did he stay home?"

"I thought he was with you," the mother frowned, fingers now clenching the door that she held open wearily.

"He came back for an umbrella," said Gary.

"No, he didn't," replied Linette.

"Said he would be two minutes -"

"Gary, he's not here."

"Then were is he?"

[  **a study in pink** ]

It was a mistake. A big mistake and he realised that within the first few minutes of slipping into the protection of a stranger. The mistake being that the moment he saw they were going down the wrong road, he didn't ask to get out, he didn't do  _anything._ Fear had gripped him in a way that had overpowered his ability to speak and he didn't realise it until they reached their destination.

Compliance was required and he gave it willingly, at least until he sat all alone in the sports hall, left for only a few moments alone to think about what he done; there was plenty that he had done in the last few months to bring him to the conclusion that maybe he deserved this. He was no saint and definitely one of the biggest screw ups there was on this side of London, but surely he was better than  _this._

Any other way than this.

Gary would be wondering what happened to him, his good friend who had only ever supported him and his choices would think he had been abandoned - or at least until he reached home and asked his mother. Gary was smart like that, and when he found out that Jimmy had not made it home in those few moments, he would begin to question where the boy had gone, but they would not figure out the truth until it was too late.

Tears fell from his eyes, knowing that the moment this all ended, people were going to hear what he was truly about and they would blame his father, blame him for driving his own son to the brink of extinction and that would haunt him for the rest of his life. His mother would blame him for it, his little sister would grow up without a brother who loved her more than anything in the world . . .

Jimmy clutched the vial as if it were a lifeline itself. He just had to choose the right jar and it would all be over or he could walk away from this knowing that he could change his life, he could go home and confess to his best friend his true feelings, he could tell his father where to put his temper. He could be the man his mother wanted him to be - fearless, brave and  _himself,_ but he had to choose the right one.

Part of him needed to scream though, so loud in the hopes that someone would hear his cries and come to the rescue, to stop him from doing this. This was wrong - so very wrong and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking as he unscrewed the lid. Another step towards the unknown, perhaps there was a chance he could walk away from this, knowing he could change for the better.

He  _wanted_ too.

But it was too late now. His thoughts were wondering now that the lid was unscrewed, knowing that running was not an option. When they found him -  _if_ they found him - they were going to discover things about the teenager that he had fought hard to keep from the world, to keep the disappointment out of his mothers eyes. Eventually, his name would be slandered and people would be happy that he had taken the easy way out, to escape punishment.

Jimmy knew what kind of person he was, he had convinced himself long ago that he would end up just like his father, but that didn't stop him from trying to be better, to be different. Sobbing, he looked down at the sports court he was hidden in and wondered how long it would take people to notice. Would it be the lingering shadow up above - the smell? What would make them all see his pathetic, lifeless form ...?

Once upon a time, Jimmy would have been scared to admit he had thought about this before; the first time he found himself to have interests in the same sex, he thought something was wrong with him. Gavin had convinced him after all that it was a "sick" thing, immoral and against human nature to enjoy that kind of thing.

Gavin had driven it into the mind of a boy who felt like that and he hid it as best as he could, but that didn't make him feel any less disgusted that he felt that way. Jimmy even got himself a girlfriend to make everything better. It done nothing for him, when she wanted more, when she  _pushed_ him for it, he shoved her away and called her some nasty names because he felt utterly sick just being made to do that.

Sometime later, the rumours had started in school; rumours that he abused her and rather quickly, it turned into something more than it ever had to be. He knew the truth and eventually she admitted the truth, but his name had been tarnished and the reality was almost exposed. It was the first time in his life he had ever been scared of what his mother would think of him, if she thought for one second her boy was capable of hurting a woman after seeing what Gavin was capable of.

Jimmy tipped the bottle now, tipping the pill into his hand as he inhaled sharply. There was a plea on the edge of his mouth, but it didn't dare speak loudly to his opponent. Death, after all, didn't care when you were playing a game of chance. If he took the wrong pill, he was going to leave behind a mother who would only blame herself, a sister who would never know her big brother, a father who he hoped would wake up ... and a best friend that had only guessed the truth.

The pill itself was tiny, it rolled on his palm as he flexed his hand, uncertain and when he glanced across death nearby, Jimmy put the pill in his mouth and swallowed.

[  **a study in pink** ]

Almost a week later, an article in  _the Daily Express_ found it's way into the public eye and despite it being just over a month since the last incident like this made it into the headlines, a slight panic began to emerge within the population; speculation began to arise that these suicides were of course, not connected, but the similarities from both situations were compatible.

Suicides never made it into the headlines twice, after all.  _Never_ twice. Of course, every person had the right to worry about the situation at hand, anybody could be next and the latest victim was just a teenager, no older than the child of those that even took a glance at the newspaper on their way to work or in the morning for a little light reading. Many of them that week had made sure to keep their children, no matter their age, close in the hopes to protect them from the same fate.

People died. It was nature, right and  _the Daily Express_ even went as far to point that out, but never like this and never in the same way. They had not been able to get a comment from those affected by the latest deaths, but their condolences were with the parents of the boy that had been found, both of who at the time were in clear distress as to what was happening, why it was them that had to lose their precious son.

It had been a week since his disappearance, a week since any news came through about his whereabouts, who may have taken him - or why, all of a sudden, he'd chosen that night to go missing and then he was found in the most unlikely of places, on the other side of town that he couldn't have got there without being seen. It was treated as suspicious, at least until the autopsy revealed cause of death, but it had just been as he feared when he was dying.

They didn't notice he was there until he started to smell.

And  _the Daily Express_ ran with the headlines, "Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ a study in pink ]  
> authors note | 05.06.2018
> 
> I never thought I would be rewriting these until my parents got me a book on Sherlock called the "Sherlock Chronicles" and it has been an interesting read over the past three series, especially following the deleted scenes that they probably never even filmed, which after reading them, I think is a shame because it would add just that little bit to the episodes. So, I thought I would mark all the pages that include content that I could integrate into this story, which will be a lot of fun trying to locate it into it's right place, because it's not like it tells you where it goes.


	4. January 27th, 2010

_original posting date:_ 08.10.2017

 **chapter four** |  _January 27th, 2010_

 A party was a party in her eyes, music would blare and drown out the noise of the real world just long enough to help her forget the trouble life she lived. Stress was one of those early killers everybody was told to avoid however they could, so here she was, avoiding the stress to tomorrow. 

 Of course, alcohol helped her forget the troubles. Tomorrow was a brutal day, she had many meetings to partake in, discussions over her employees to have - some would not be coming back to work the following week. It wasn't her fault, of course, she couldn't help that the company was paying out for colleagues to sit on their ass and do nothing all day, but it made it nonetheless easier. 

 The party tonight was one that had been planned for months in advance, a proposition for a new deal had finally gone through and they were celebrating. Not worrying about tomorrow, not caring about the lives they were about to ruin. Just this - the blissful beat of the music that paraded them into the early hours of the morning. 

 Beth Davanport rarely got to have fun.

 Every now and then she looked towards the large poster dangling from the wall, her face printed large across it with the worst smile one could manage in this lifetime. She looked too falsely happy. The bright, burgundy red hair was pulled back and permed smart, brown eyes sparkled with a happiness for the camera, the smile - she pulled a face at it.

 That wasn't her right now, that was the work-mask she plastered on her face every working day to pass away the fact that her job had ruined her life. A long time ago, when she had started the company, it was the prize of her life, it was her child that she had nurtured in this successful young creature, multi-billion pound enterprise -

 And she had nothing to show for it. 

 Beth had no children, no husband, not even an animal to share those lonely evenings with when she got home from work. Just a big apartment she could afford three times over and a healthy pension. Christmas was inevitably lonely and she was pretty sure her assistants only tolerated her because she paid their wages. 

 It was a terrible feeling. One that made her feel isolated, gave her the need to just drink and let it all go. It was the only time, after all, that she felt secure enough to do what she wanted without being scrutinised. So, she danced and she drank her body weight and more of alcohol to ignore those lonely feelings. 

As the music charged her sway, Maggie Walters, one of Beth's aides, walked through the hall doors with a look of exhaustion on her face. She left the double doors wide open to watch the flashing lights, the beat of the music vibrate the very floor that they stood on, eyes lingering only on the woman who had yet to decide to call it a night. 

 "Is she still dancing?" 

 Over her shoulder, Maggie looked towards the second aide Beth had hired a few months ago to help handle the extra paperwork for the company's successful turnover. Andrew Bailey was a young man, finely dressed for such an evening and looked just as exhausted as his partner, yet still managed to carry a forceful smile. 

 They all knew what Beth was like if they didn't look like they were having fun. Grinch didn't even begin to cover the Christmas party when she discovered that a few of her employees could not take an hour out of their time to come and join the others. The thought made Maggie shudder, perhaps one of the most terrifying times in her life. 

 "Yeah," replied Maggie, moving over to him. "If you can call it that."

 "It's almost twelve," said Andrew, frowning.  "Surely she can't go on for much longer."

 "You'll be surprised," answered Maggie. 

 "Did you at least get her car keys?"

 Raising the keys in her palm, she listened to the metal jingle before handing them to him. "You know she's not going to like us driving her home, right?"

 "I'd rather her not get pulled over for drunk driving." Andrew looked up at Maggie and gave an awkward smile, "I'll handle her. You got the little one to get back too."

 "Yeah, I owe Sherry," Maggie rubbed the back of her neck with a sigh.

 "Your mum couldn't look after her tonight?"

 "No. She's got that nasty bug that's going around."

 "Well, I'll be your knight in shining armour tonight -"

 "Only because you  _lost."_

 They had challenged each other earlier with a quick game to decide on who would be the lucky one to endure Beth's drunken ramblings. As much love as there was for their boss, she had the ugly habit of putting down a lot of the workers she'd personally hired herself. Over time, little irritations began to show themselves and she made them known when her tongue was loose on alcohol. 

 Most of the accusations were ignored, truth was that Andrew and Maggie were, most of the time, the brunt of her anger. They weren't doing their jobs right, they weren't making her coffee correctly - little things she wouldn't say during the day to their faces. It was a problem that they had learned to brush off their shoulders; Beth had a habit of apologising in the morning anyway. 

 Everything about Beth Davanport was complicated, but Andrew had come to respect the stress she was under. Very rarely she got the chance to relax, her job was almost a twenty four-seven deal kind of thing and without the extra help, she would have drowned a long time ago, so it took a lot for her to admit that she needed a hand, even when she was drunk. 

 They learned when she needed the help, though. When she was too influenced to correct her balance the right way or when enough was enough, when she didn't have the strength to fight back the hands that would guide her to her car. Usually by then, she was too drunk to remember what was being said to her, let alone that her party was over. 

 Andrew hated this part of the job, because Beth was like a mother to him. He felt the urge to protect her from such humiliation, but a warning from Maggie had proved that treating her like fragile China in a shop was insulting. The man before him lost his job over the very same thing because he believed he was doing her a favour. 

 Together, they had discovered a way to protect Beth without her discovering what they were up too. It started off with small things. Keeping her watch from her, taking away her phone so that she couldn't tell the time. The party would end then when they said it would and then it continued with her keys; after the one time she left under all their noses and tried to get into her car to drive.

 "Look at her," he muttered under his breath, "I don't even think she's noticed."

 "She wouldn't. I got them right out of her bag and she just wanted to talk about dancing," said Maggie sheepishly. 

 "I'm surprised she's managed to keep hold of her bag," said Andrew. 

 "Well, don't speak too soon. Before you know it, we could be looking for the thing."

 Andrew smiled in satisfaction. "Sorry."

 Their boss was a little impish when it came to the desire to drive while half-cut. She had no sense of direction so damage had been done to other vehicles in her desperate attempt to make her keys fit into the wrong locks. The stories they had to tell her of why she had damage-payments to make out in the morning were never easy, but accepted.

  "Hey."

 Andrew, at that moment of apologising, had looked up past Maggie into the dance hall. He could see the poster of his boss' face staring back at him with that same smile that proved a devilish behaviour. It was that smile she bore on her face that made him stand from the chair he had perched himself on with worry.

 He could see the other's tipsy still dancing and talking amongst one another as if nothing at all was going on. He could see some familiar faces beneath the flashing lights, but as he neared the doors and he took a look inside the room, there was only one body he couldn't see on the dance floor.

 Behind him, Maggie approached, "What's wrong?"

 "Where is she?"

 [  **a study in pink** ]

 The search for her car had come at a cost, but luckily not a single alarm was set off this time; she didn't need them to know that she was outside, wanting to go home. The thrill of the alcohol had passed off in the span of a few minutes and left her with a desire to just find her bed and collapse into it; at the moment, she didn't even care if she missed work. 

 Beth's head was spinning, everything was wobbly, but somehow, she managed to keep her balance as she stumbled through the car park. After a couple of peer-ins through windows that were not her own, she found her vehicle. She remembered earlier on in the day she had stuck a neon yellow sticker to the dashboard, indication that this was her car.

 She told herself that if she could remember the sticker, if she could find her car still after so many hours of dancing and drinking, she was capable enough to drive herself home. She didn't want Andrew or Maggie up in her business tonight. She was too miserable to accept their company right now, even though it may be safer to endure their reprimanding. 

 It was hopeless, though. "Bugger!" 

 Even now, she felt depressed, knowing if she missed work tomorrow, the morning after she would have to walk in, head held high and have her backside kissed once more by the people she employed. Her nose scrunched at the thought of seeing any of them again so shortly after tonight. 

 Sighing, Beth dropped her bag on the bonnet of her car and began rummaging through it's contents. No phone, no car keys - nothing that would help her get home. She realised that her two assistants had once again plotted against her to keep her from driving herself. Did they really think she was that incapable? 

 Looking at her car, Beth sighed, "You'll have to stay here."

 Something else she would have to remember in the morning. A good thing she didn't plan on going into work in the morning. There was no point, not now - not anymore. She couldn't walk back into that building and ask them to give her back her keys and she certainly didn't want them restraining her in the back seat to drive her home. She was capable, not careless. 

 Truth was, though, she knew driving under the influence, especially with the new application to her business, was stupid. Giving up that kind of money, the pay rise she could provide to her employees and the future customers she would frighten away would ruin her. She shook the thought out of her head; there were other ways she could get home. 

 Dragging her bag from the car, Beth began walking - she knew how to get home.

[  **a study in pink** ]

 Everything seemed to blur, she wasn't sure if she had passed out or just not acknowledged that at the last moment, when she opened her door - it was not taking her into her hallway, but a empty building of sorts that seemed to scream for her to run; she couldn't. Even though she had kicked her shoes off sometime between here and there, she couldn't.

 A story her father used to tell her came to mind, a story of a donkey - lame and old and no longer of use to the farmers, was put into a well that was supposed to be holed up anyway to die. They planned on burying it quickly to end the animal's suffering. The farmer and several of his friends began shovelling dirt into the dry well, but the donkey, despite old was clever.

 It shook off the dirt every time it landed on it's back and stepped up on the earth beginning o build around it. It continued to do this until the farmer and his friends realised what was happening and that the donkey was not ready to die. Eventually, the donkey, so lame and overused, climbed out of the well to save itself and the farmer never underestimated his animals again. 

 Beth felt like that donkey a lot of the time during her life. Collapsed under the weight of the falling dirt, to eventually shrug it off and take a step up. She eventually made it out of the well and her life was so beautiful and perfect and wrong, but it was still walked in the sunlight. It was wonderful to open her eyes and realise her suffering was only temporary.

 Until now. Until the cruel hands of fate had found a deeper well to throw her down and now here she was, cowering before the falling grains of Earth looking to bury her alive. She could cry and scream and run but it would make no difference. The well was small and tight and it was keeping her pinned in place, enduring this falling dark snow that sought to finish off what was left of Beth Davanport.

 Half with her conscious mind, Beth was brought to frantic sobs. She didn't want to do this, she didn't. She had so much to live for - or did she? She pushed away every possible relationship all her life. Her daddy's fault. She didn't have family to go home too. She insulted half her staff on a daily basis. There was  _nothing_ for her out there. 

 Turning her head against the cool glass, Beth looked out to the building site. Maybe she would survive and find it in her heart to change; she had the chance. She just had to prove that she was capable enough. She didn't want to do this, but in the back of her mind, she knew she would have too. 

 The decision would be made for her otherwise and she might not like the outcome and who really wanted someone else to decide their death for them? The majority of the world knew eventually they would die, they would go into the ground or become ash and they would be nothing more than foundation for the next generation. 

 The majority of the world fought death, fought the idea of it at least. It frightened them, it frightened everybody, even those who said it did not. These were the consequences of her actions, she had come to see that now. If she had trusted Andrew to take her home without any reprimand or believed Maggie was capable of handling things in the morning, she wouldn't be here -

 Helplessly, she reached out to the small glass container on the windowsill in front of her and took ahold of it with shaking hands. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to face a world without her in it, but there was a chance she could survive. Beth was promised that, she was told she just had to choose or have it chosen for her. 

 Could it stay the same? Could she come out of this in the morning and believe it was some kind of horrible nightmare? There was nothing else in this world she could sacrifice, there was no life past this bottle. One final bottle to be consumed. One tiny little pill between her lips and she could face life or death; she promised if it was life, she would make it so much better. 

 Slowly, she unscrewed the bottle, tipped out a table into her trembling palm -

 "Oh God," she sobbed pathetically. 

 He could not help her now. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [ A Study In Pink ]  
> authors note | 02.06.2018
> 
>  Well, in all honestly, I never thought I would get the first chapter of this re-written, it's been sitting there long enough. These authors notes will always be a little dabble at the end of the chapter just talking about random stuff, things - anything really. 
> 
> You don't have to read them.


End file.
